by Paige Toon
I get a couple of mugs out from the cupboard. ‘Do you want one?’
‘I think I need a shot of tequila,’ he replies.
‘It’s a slippery slope,’ I tease, but he doesn’t find it funny.
He goes to the playpen and I glance over to see April holding her arms up to him while she screams. He lifts her out of the pen and walks out of the room, taking some of the noise with him.
I probably let the tea brew for a few minutes longer than necessary, but, by the time I tentatively appear at the living-room door, the screaming has quietened to hiccuppy breathing. Charlie has April over his shoulder and is jigging her around. She notices me and turns her face away to bury it in her dad’s neck. I place the tea on the coffee table.
‘Is she okay?’ I ask in a whisper.
Charlie closes his eyes briefly in resignation and nods.
‘Shall I go and get started?’
He nods again.
Nicki’s computer screen has been dusted since the last time I came here and her desk has been wiped down, too. But, if Charlie has a cleaner, she hasn’t been this morning.
I switch on the computer, and, while I’m waiting for it to fire up, I get my notepad and pen out of my rucksack. The first thing I want to do is read the beginning of the sequel. I’m hoping to find some clues as to where Nicki was going with it.
Ten minutes later there’s a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ I call, swivelling in my chair to see Charlie enter.
‘Have you got everything you need?’ he asks. His face is racked with exhaustion.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m reading Confessions. The first few pages are great,’ I think to add.
He nods, but I can tell he’s not in the mood to hear about Nicki’s book.
‘How’s April?’ I ask.
He sighs and leans against the doorframe. ‘I managed to get her to sleep in her pram. She’s been up half the night.’
‘You must be knackered.’ His eyes are tinged red.
‘Mmm. Turns out she was, too. She wouldn’t normally nap until ten.’
He rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. He hasn’t shaved this morning.
‘She usually goes down like clockwork. Mum reckons she must be teething again.’
‘A clockwork baby? I didn’t think they existed,’ I jest, hoping he can take it.
‘Neither did I,’ he replies wryly. ‘Nicki’s sister, Kate, got her into a routine a few months ago. Wrote out a timetable for me, told me to stick to it. Mum thought it was rubbish, but it worked.’ He tuts and looks away. ‘Well, it does work, usually.’
‘Where does Nicki’s sister live?’
‘Essex, where Nicki’s mum lives, too.’
‘That’s a long way away,’ I say unnecessarily.
‘Funnily enough, when Nicki moved back here, she didn’t think it was far enough.’ Pain darkens his features, killing off his momentary amusement. ‘Have you got everything you need?’ he asks brusquely, and I adapt my expression accordingly. He doesn’t want my sympathy.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Well, I’m going to get on with some work while she sleeps. I’ll be outside if you need me.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
A short while later, a scratching sound comes from outside the window. I curiously peer over the computer screen to see Charlie, in a white vest and frayed khaki green shorts, sanding a large tree branch in the back garden. I wonder what he’s doing with it. I watch him for a moment, noticing the taut muscles on his tanned arms.
And there I was, lamenting the absence of a sea view from this side of the house.
I told Elliot all about Charlie the same day that I met him. He called me when I was at the B&B in Padstow, about to go to bed. He wanted to know what Charlie was like and I knew he meant both in manner and in appearance, so I told him honestly, a goofy grin plastered all over my face. He chuckled and told me to go and take a cold shower.
I love that he doesn’t get jealous. He trusts me and I trust him, and neither of us has issues over the other admiring some eye candy if it crosses our paths.
I think of Vince and shudder. He’s one of my ex-boyfriends whom I’m really not looking forward to meeting up with again. He used to get insanely jealous. I try to put him out of my mind.
I’m completely caught up in Kit’s world again as I read the early pages. I know the words will come to an abrupt end, but it’s still a shock when it happens.
The Secret Life of Us concluded on a cliff hanger, but Confessions stops right in the middle of the story, right in the middle of a conversation. . .
It’s staggering to think that Nicki died at this point in the book. Where was she when it happened? Was she working, sitting here at the desk where I’m sitting now? A chill trickles down my spine at the thought.
How did Charlie and April cope, losing her so suddenly? April was only five weeks old, a tiny baby, needing her mother. I can’t even begin to imagine how Charlie managed to pick himself up and be a father to her. His grief must’ve been utterly debilitating. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
I take a deep breath and exhale loudly. I think it might be time for a coffee break— No way! Is that the time? It’s twenty past one! The morning’s flown by. Maybe I’ll take a wander into Padstow for lunch.
I stand up and stretch, looking out of the window. I’ve been so lost in the story that I didn’t even notice Charlie had stopped sanding.
The house is quiet as I wander downstairs. I poke my head around the door to the living room, but it’s deserted. There’s no one in the kitchen, either.
‘Charlie?’ I call out in case he’s lurking somewhere. No answer.
I frown. I didn’t hear him come upstairs, not that I was paying attention. I look around, but there’s no note to say where he’s gone. He hasn’t given me a key, so I won’t be able to get back in if he’s out for the day.
I’d better check upstairs.
‘Charlie?’ I call out quietly as I walk back up. I don’t want to wake April if she’s still asleep. How long do babies nap for? Surely she’d be awake by now.
Aside from Nicki’s office, there are three other doors on the first floor and they’re all open. The first is the bathroom – empty.
I go to the second and knock on the door. ‘Charlie?’ No answer. I peek in and find April’s bedroom. Her cot and furniture are wooden and painted white, and her curtains and blanket are pale pink. There’s a large seahorse on the wall, made out of sticks, and the small table beside the cot is crammed with higgledy-piggledy, white, wooden photo frames. I can see from here that some of the photos are of Nicki, and, although I’d like to study them, I already feel that I’m snooping. I call out Charlie’s name once more before knocking on the last open door along the corridor. When there’s no answer, I cautiously peer inside. The large double bed dominating the space is unmade, and there are more photo frames on the side table, but that’s all I take in of Charlie’s bedroom before backing out.
The house is empty. I am alone. And I am ravenous.
When will Charlie be back? When can I go for lunch? I really don’t want to risk getting locked out.
I decide to make another cup of tea to tide me over, and then I get back to work. I plan to read over the rest of the contents of Nicki’s computer and take notes.
I start with the Confessions synopsis, but it’s disappointingly brief. Kit continues to plan two weddings, but the pages end with the question, ‘Will she go through with them?’ so I have no idea if Nicki intended her character to choose between the two men, get dumped by either or both of them, or marry them both. When I’m done with the synopsis, I move on to the next file in the folder.
Whereas the morning flew by, the next hour and a half passes in slow motion. Eventually, I can stand it no longer and go back downstairs in search of food. There’s a loaf of bread in the breadbox, so I guiltily slice off a couple of pieces and pop them into the toaster before raiding the fridge and cupboards for c
ondiments.
While I’m waiting for my toast to pop up, I tidy up a bit. There’s a dishwasher, but, upon investigation, I discover it needs unpacking, so for now I just take the dirty plates from the table and relocate them to the pile already in and by the sink. After I’ve eaten, I wipe over the worktops and wash up the dirty dishes by hand. Hopefully that will do as payment for my stolen lunch.
It’s almost five o’clock before Charlie comes home with April – I left the office door open so I could hear them returning. I’m a bit confused that Charlie went out without leaving me a key – or even so much as telling me – but maybe he doesn’t want me to have open access to his house yet. I guess it must be weird having a stranger here at all, but he was the one who asked it to be this way. I’ll bring lunch with me tomorrow.
I gather my things together and shut down Nicki’s computer. At least I’ve had a productive day.
On my way downstairs I can hear Charlie talking to April in the living room. I poke my head around the door to see him changing her nappy. She’s lying on a mat on the bay-window sofa, gazing up at him.
‘Hi.’
He jolts and looks at me over his shoulder. Nicki’s yellow bandana is back in place around his forehead.
‘I’m going to head off.’
‘Okay.’
‘I nicked some of your bread for lunch, sorry. I’ll replace it.’
‘There’s no need,’ he says with a frown, smoothing down April’s red dress and sitting her up.
‘I’ll see you in the morning?’ I say. ‘Nine o’clock?’
‘Sure.’ He stands up and lifts his daughter into his arms. She smiles at him.
‘She seems happier.’ I linger at the door.
‘I think the teething gel helped.’
‘Your mum’s idea?’
‘Yeah.’ He comes over to me, so I step out of the room and head towards the front door. ‘Everything all right today?’ He sounds tense.
‘Yes, good. I’m just reading everything in the Confessions folder.’
He nods curtly and opens the door. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’
‘Yep, see you then.’
The door closes with a loud clunk before I’ve even made it onto the footpath.
Chapter 6
The same thing happens the next day, but this time I came prepared. I go downstairs to the empty kitchen and clear away the breakfast things before eating my sandwich at the table overlooking the back garden. At least I’m not missing out on sunshine. The sky is completely overcast.
What I previously thought of as a bit of a dumping ground, I now realise is some sort of outdoor workshop. The trampled grass is carpeted with sawdust and wood chippings and there are workbenches peppered with tools and wooden planks lined up on the ground. Charlie was sanding a branch again this morning and there are several smooth, finished branches lying under the veranda. I wonder what he’s making.
When he comes back at the slightly earlier time of three forty-five that afternoon, I go downstairs to make a coffee and to ask him.
‘Some recreation equipment for a local primary school,’ he tells me, popping April into her pen. She immediately squawks and hauls herself up to a standing position, her chubby fingers clutching onto the side of the pen as support. ‘Play with your toys for a bit,’ he says to her.
She cries out with annoyance, but he ignores her, opening the dishwasher.
‘You set it going,’ he says to me, seeming almost perplexed by the sight of clean dishes.
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t have to tidy up after us.’
‘I don’t mind. I needed a break from staring at a computer screen.’
He’s oblivious to my pointed statement.
He starts to unload the dishwasher while I make myself a coffee, trying to take a leaf out of his book and ignore April’s insistent cries. Eventually, Charlie gives up and lifts her out of her playpen, sitting her on her nappy-clad bottom on the floor with a saucepan and a wooden spoon to play with. She bashes the utensil against the pan. Ow, my ears!
I walk over to the French doors and look out while waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘Is that what you do?’ I call over my shoulder. ‘Make stuff out of wood?’
‘Yep.’
‘Like what?’
‘Play kitchens, houses, tree houses, that sort of thing.’ He has to raise his voice over the racket April is making.
I’m always impressed by people who can make things with their hands. I turn away from the doors. ‘Do you always work when April is asleep?’
‘Yep. But how much time I get varies.’ He casts a wry look at his daughter. She gazes up at him and he narrows his eyes at her.
Whack, whack, whack.
‘Water’s boiled,’ he notes absently, glancing my way.
I get on with my task and leave them to it.
‘Tell him to give you a key!’ my friend Marty exclaims the following evening when I call her from up on the field. I’ve come here to catch up on my emails and check the comments on my blog, but I got bored after a while and decided to call my best mate instead.
Marty and I were introduced in our early twenties by a colleague who worked at the same travel magazine as me – Marty, herself, is a travel agent.
I’d just broken up with my boyfriend, Vince, and we clicked straightaway. We flat-shared for three years, although I lived with her only on and off, as, once I went freelance, I travelled around quite a bit. We’ve been great friends ever since.
‘I can’t ask for a key,’ I reply. ‘Not yet. He barely knows me. I don’t want to go to him with a list of requirements.’
‘A key is hardly unreasonable, especially as he asked you to work from his house.’
‘I will ask him for one, just not yet. Maybe next week.’ I smile at a woman as she trundles down the steep hill towards the toilet block with her onesie-clad daughter, before returning my gaze to the estuary. The tide is on its way back in. ‘I sat out on his front wall for a bit today. It was really hot.’
‘What’s wrong with his back garden?’ she asks, so I explain.
Charlie was hammering earlier, as well as sanding. He seems to be making basic structures out of wooden planks – at the moment he’s working on a play kitchen. I don’t know where the branches will come in.
‘Is he shaggable?’ she asks suddenly.
‘Highly,’ I reply with a smirk, then immediately feel guilty for being so flippant considering the circumstances that brought me here.
‘Does he look anything like Ross Poldark?’ Marty asks eagerly, blissfully unaware of my altered mood.
‘No,’ I reply firmly. ‘You’re obsessed with that series!’
Poldark is set in Cornwall, so she does have a reason for bringing it into our conversation.
‘Yeah, I am. Aidan Turner is insanely lickable.’
‘Lickable?’ I ask with a laugh, as our conversation goes off on a bizarre tangent. Nothing new, when it comes to Marty.
‘Don’t you just want to climb through the TV screen and lick his face?’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever wanted to do that,’ I reply, presuming she’s talking about the guy who plays the lead character. ‘How did we get onto this?’
‘You were saying Charlie is as fit as fuck and I asked—’
‘Stop!’ I cut her off. ‘I did not say that! You’re making me feel bad. The poor guy only lost his wife last October.’
‘That really is properly shitty, isn’t it?’
‘I’d say that’s putting it mildly.’ I sigh heavily.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks. ‘You don’t sound like your usual chirpy self. Is it depressing, being there?’
‘Not as depressing as it could be, but I do feel a bit like I’m intruding,’ I admit. ‘Yes, even though he wanted me here,’ I say before she can chip in. ‘He only really talks to me if it’s about his daughter. I’ve tried to make conversation about his work, but he’s not what you’d call chatty. I guess it’s only e
arly days. It’ll be fine. I’ll perk up. Hang on a sec.’ I place the phone down on the grass and crack open a mini-bottle of Prosecco before putting the phone back to my ear. ‘Cheers,’ I say, taking a swig. The bubbles fizz right up my nostrils and make me cough.
‘Are you drinking on your own?’ Marty asks with alarm.
‘No, I’m talking to you. I consider that company.’
‘When you said you were going to perk up, I didn’t realise you meant you were going to get shitfaced on the phone to me.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Marty, do you really have to go on holiday to Greece for two weeks with that boyfriend of yours? Can’t you come and see me instead?’
‘I promise I’ll come and see you when the lovely Ted and I get back,’ she assures me.
‘You really do love him, don’t you?’ I say wistfully.
‘I really, really do,’ she replies even more wistfully.
‘All right, now you’re making me want to throw up.’
We’re still giggling when we ring off.
I take a deep breath of the damp, salty air, inhaling the scent of seawater and long, summer grass. The sun is setting and the sky is a canvas of mauve, orange, rose and blue brush-strokes. I stay up on the hill until the first star comes out and then I return to Hermie, climbing into bed without bothering to take off my make-up.
Chapter 7
I’m a bit over it now.
And, yes, I know this does not bode well for the coming weeks.
I had to make a midnight loo stop thanks to my old pal Prosecco, and my stomach muscles were at it all night long because I kept rolling off to one side – obviously the ground is not as level as I thought. I slept terribly, so I’m knackered and I woke up this morning with crusty eyes and clumpy lashes.
I look like hell. And I don’t even care. I’m not even sure I can be bothered to go to the shower block.
I lie there in bed until eight forty before pulling myself together.
Sort it out, Bridget. Charlie is expecting you.
Grabbing my washbag, I climb out of the van. I really do need to wash my hair today. Grease is the word.
